


It's Not About the Revolution

by Geekthefreakout



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canonical Character Death, it's les mis what do you expect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-11 22:05:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5643547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geekthefreakout/pseuds/Geekthefreakout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Eponine's death, Grantaire reflects. This is a gift for ballonsaresilly. It is essentially a mishmash of book and musical canon, so you will see some elements or characterization from both. Any quotes you recognize, however, come straight from the book. I hope you like it!</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not About the Revolution

 

 _This whole revolution is shit._ Grantaire thought to himself, sipping at his drink. He was wet and cold, with only his wine to warm him, as it was his turn to sit watch out on the barricade. He'd much rather be in the tavern- or better yet, another tavern, on the other side of town, which was not being shot at by the bloody National Guard. He would be there too, if not for Enjorlas. Stupid, perfect Enjorlas. Grantaire may not have believed in the revolution, but Enjorlas did- with his whole heart and soul, Enjorlas did, and so Grantaire too must be willing to lay down his useless, drunken life for it. For Enjorlas, for all he ever bloody noticed Grantaire's existence.

    A bit of noise causes him to look down the barricade. Marius is choking back sobs as he reads the letter that poor, dead wench gave to him. What was her name- Emilie? No, Eponine. The first to fall, Enjorlas had said. Grantaire, from what he had observed (and he was far more observant that most of Les Amis gave him credit for) she had not believed in this revolution either. He took another sip of his wine as he watched Marius pass a hand over Eponine's still face, frozen in a small, final smile, before standing and heading inside, clutching the letter. Oblivious boy. What was it that Eponine had said before she'd finally succumbed to her wounds?

    “And by the way, Monsieur Marius, I believe that I was a little in love with you.”

    But of course the little waif was in love with him. How often had Grantaire seen the child flitting about the square and in and out of the cafe, with big cow eyes aimed solely at Marius Pontmercy? And how often had Marius, oblivious to the girl's affection, given her a passing glance at best, and his pity at worst? Poor child. But he could not blame her- Marius, like Enjorlas, had a way about him, though Marius could never set the fire in Grantaire's heart as Enjorlas, the perfect statue he was, could. Marius was the kind of man an unfortunate girl like Eponine would die for and think herself lucky for it. Lucky to have his attention at last, to receive that one kiss of farewell to her forehead as she passed. Grantaire turned his attention to the door of the tavern, where Enjorlas was speaking to the older gentleman who had joined them and served them so well. Would Enjorlas grant him the same regard, little though it was, that Marius had given Eponine after Grantaire inevitably fell? It was a fancy, of course, because though Grantaire was drunk he was not stupid. They would none of them survive this battle, this so-called revolution. Not he, not Enjorlas, not even little Gavroche, who flitted about the barricade cheerfully loading his musket. They would run out of ammunition soon. Finally, Combferre climbed to Grantaire's perch and relieved him of his duty. With one last glance at Eponine's still form, he ducked inside the tavern, determined to drink his fill, if this was to be the last chance he got. He allowed himself to believe that Enjorlas smiled at him as he passed.

    He fell asleep to the sound of guns, and startled awake to silence.

    Grantaire rose from the bench where he had been sleeping and knew in his heart that his brothers were dead… though perhaps not all of them, as he heard muffled voices from the next room. When he walked over and found the National Guard (bloody National Guard, he knew it would end this way, didn't he?) pointing their guns at Enjorlas, whose strong arms were folded defiantly in front of him, he thought, numbly, that this must have been just what Eponine felt when she put her hand over that musket for Marius.

    “Long live the Republic!” he cried. _Fuck the Republic,_ he thought to himself, _but long live its leader._ The guardsmen allowed him to pass and stand next to his perfect statue, his Enjorlas. “Finish us both with one blow.” Then, remembering the recognition that had been Eponine's reward for her death, he turned to Enjorlas.

    “Do you permit it?” he asked lowly. Enjorlas smiled, took his hand, and Grantaire thought himself lucky for it.

 _And by the way, my dear Enjorlas,_ Grantaire thought as the shots rang out and bullets pierced their bodies, _I believe I was a little in love with you._

    Then there was silence once more.

 


End file.
